


Mommolek’s Last Ride

by fawatson



Category: The Sword of Welleran - Lord Dunsany
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 13:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13249026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Mommolek and Soorenard steal a king.





	Mommolek’s Last Ride

**Author's Note:**

> **Request:** I would love to read more about the deeds of Merimna's heroes, either in time of battle or time of peace. I mentioned above that I love loyalty-relationships -- I would enjoy seeing what their comradeship with each other was like, 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
> **Author's Notes:** This is a sort of replacement story. Zdenka, earlier this year I matched with you for the Every Woman 2017 fic-exchange and got it wrong in the story I originally wrote (included a DNW). I wrote a second story, and you acknowledged it and said nice polite things; but it was clear it was not something you really liked. I hope this story is a better match for your tastes.

Mommolek was an expert at scaling walls. In his childhood he had climbed cliffs to steal the eggs from birds’ nests. As a young man he had scaled the tower at Katorakan to court the priest’s daughter in secret. After six months Aliana had finally agreed to marry him, and he had got her out of her lonely tower, belaying her (shaking and terrified but determined to run away with him) down a long rope before he spirited her out of the city. They had had two happy years together before she died, her unborn child with her. 

For some, familiarity helps them in bereavement. For Mommolek it was a constant grating reminder of all he had lost. Within two months he had sold his prosperous vineyard and left to join Merimna’s army. It was a measure of his despair that he, who had once made his living from growing things, now chose to live off the death of others. He fully expected his life would end in some melee. To his surprise, he discovered he had a real talent for warfare. It seemed when one had nothing to lose except a life one no longer valued, one became an excellent fighter. He not only survived, he prospered and caught the eye of General Welleran, who took him under his wing. In due course, Mommolek rose to be one of the five great Captains under Welleran, honoured amongst the greatest warriors in the world. With his colleagues Soorenard, Rollory, Akanax, and young Iraine, he mourned Welleran when he died, and honoured his last wishes, keeping secret his final resting place. 

Merimna was a proud city: proud of its fantastical and twisted spires, proud of its music, proud to sponsor poetry and learning at its university, proud that it, alone amongst the Thousand Kingdoms was _not_ a kingdom, having thrown over its monarch in favour of an elected Council of Elders a hundred years before. At the height of its power it was a quarrelsome city: beautiful and cultured within, but aggressive without. Peace was just the brief hiatus between wars as it fought its neighbours to both east and west, not to mention the barbarian tribes beyond the Cyresians. Two years after Welleran’s death Merimna picked a quarrel with its close neighbour Taos. That city was situated on a rocky promontory at the confluence of two major rivers which meant it commanded lucrative trade routes. Merimna coveted the income from the river routes. Taos was a small city and Merimna’s rulers expected it to be an easy target. 

However, this time, Merimna had not taken the true measure of their enemy. Taos was small but very well fortified, with high granite walls. The Taosians were good fighters and they felt they had just cause to resist the encroachment of Merimna. Taos had no standing army but it required its citizenry to learn the bow and arrow and routinely to serve 30 days out of every year – longer in case of emergency. It also had considerable reserves of gold and silver which it was prepared to use in its own defence. Threatened by Merimna, the Taosian war council put out the word it was hiring and mercenaries flocked to its gates. Not that mercenaries were always a blessing to an army. Many years earlier Merimna had learned the hard way _not_ to rely on them. But the core of the Taosian army came from its loyal citizenry and it had a brilliant and charismatic general in Prince Kerim, only son of the city’s king. He knew well how to use the mercenaries to full advantage without depending too heavily on them. 

The war dragged on, absorbing more and more of Merimna’s resources, as pitched battle followed pitch battle, always inconclusively, until Merimna’s ruling elite looked to find a different solution. They debated at length – in secret of course, though somehow the citizenry knew it was happening. Had he still lived the Council of Elders might have listened to Welleran. As it was, they called in his deputies for advice. However, great fighters though they were, none had quite the reputation for invincibility which Welleran had enjoyed and the one piece of advice they all agreed on – to make peace with Taos, not war – was unpalatable to the ruling council. Merimna’s rulers consulted not one but two augurs, both of whom warned of great loss while foreseeing eventual victory, all in cryptic language which made their predictions no use at all. Eventually the Council decided they would send in a small hand-picked party of men to carry off the Taosian king who would be held until the city gave in.

Mommolek had argued against this plan, vociferously, but the vote had gone against him. All other suggestions had already been rejected by the council. Only this one had been agreed by slender majority, and the ruling group had no stomach for more debate. Mommolek stood with his fellow captains to hear the decision. His renown as a mountaineer meant he would be in charge. He was ordered to pick a squad of men and accomplish the deed before the next full moon. He argued against that too. Anyone climbing the sheer walls of Taos would need the light from the moon to find handholds. He needed to _wait_ for the full moon before attempting it. He was again overruled. He looked around the Council chamber at the faces of Merimna’s rulers and their most trusted advisers - soft men, pretty men, perfumed and coiffed and dressed in fine silks and bedecked with jewels, men with golden tongues. Men with stone hearts. 

Merimna had a canker at its heart, which would, Mommolek felt sure, undoubtedly prove to be its downfall over time. But that was the future and this was now. For now, he was the loyal and trusted Captain of his chosen city; and he had been given an order – a stupidly _cockeyed_ order – but one he was duty bound to carry out. Over the next week Mommolek made his preparations, selecting three men to accompany him, training and equipping them. Soorenard helped, checking harnesses and buckles, selecting ropes and repairing rope ladders. When Mommolek was busy elsewhere, Soorenard took over the coaching as the hand-picked squad of men practice-climbed up the university tower (not the highest within the city, but the sheerest, with treacherous footing). He was no expert at climbing but had camped in the mountains with Mommolek the previous summer and knew enough to monitor, to spot problems, to encourage and remind. He always made sure the safety nets were spread correctly. In the evenings, Soorenard sat, listening much and saying little, while Mommolek confided his doubts over their evening meal. 

As time grew short, Mommolek made his decision. In secret, he made parallel plans to go alone; he would sneak away one day sooner than expected. He had been told to choose whomever he wanted for this mission. Well, his choice was himself, alone. These were good men, decent and honourable, competent soldiers all. But not climbers. Even Soorenard’s climbing skills were pretty basic, and he had at least had some practice last summer. They all deserved better than certain death. 

Four days before the full moon, Mommolek rode out the postern gate. The guards did not question; Merimna’s Captains often rode out checking forward defences. He made his way to an abandoned shepherd’s hut where he had left a second horse and various supplies, earlier that day. From there he rode swiftly toward Taos, where he tethered both horses behind a clump of trees not far from that city’s northern wall. He left them, heads in feed bags to keep them quiet, and continued on foot those few yards further to the wall. Earlier in the war, Merinma had obtained charts of Taos’ defensive walls by bribing a merchant whose caravan trade was being ruined by the long drawn-out conflict. Mommolek had studied the drawings carefully and determined there was a blind spot which he now intended to take advantage of. Slowly he climbed. By itself alone that climb was a feat worthy of song and story, and there was more to come. Once he had reached the top, he slung a narrow rope ladder from one merlon reaching down to the ground along the line he had just climbed, thus to aid his escape once he had secured his prisoner; also he hung another ladder down to the city street below. Down this, he crept silently. 

Taos was a well-managed city; it even had oil lamps on every building illuminating the main streets. Mommolek cursed under his breath as he dodged back and forth using the shadows as best he could to hide his progress. There were guards on the front entrance to the king’s palace. He therefore found a tiny alleyway leading to the kitchen, begged food to gain entrance, and attacked the pot-boy when his back was turned, using a rag soaked in ether to help subdue him. Stealthily Mommolek crept up the stairs toward the royal apartments, hiding under a table at one point when he heard two maids coming toward him. (Thank heavens for their gossip which had warned him of their approach.) He used a morsel of doctored meat on the queen’s pet lapdog to keep the pampered beast quiet, and pressed his ether-soaked rag over both king’s and queen’s mouths once he gained entry to the inner chamber. Next Mommolek tied the queen to the bed and put a gag in her mouth, for there was no sense in leaving her free to call for help when she regained her senses. The king he trussed tightly and gagged, before hiding him in a coarse hemp sack. This bundle Mommolek lowered by rope from the third storey window. Another of his rope ladders aided his own exit. 

All he then had to do was repeat his outward journey in reverse. This was where it began to go wrong. (Well, something had been _bound_ to go awry; he had said as much to those pompous idiots back in Merimna. Stealing a king from his own city is not a simple task, he had said. Not that they had listened.) He was still in Taos, with the bundled sack of royalty on his back, when he ran into two drunken off-duty guards answering the call of nature in an alleyway outside a public house. Even soldiers the worse for alcohol develop suspicions when a sack groans loudly.

Unceremoniously Mommolek dumped the king on the ground and pulled his knife. After a few fraught moments costing him only a nick to his arm, he left the guards bleeding their lives away, and was able to re-shoulder his burden and continue toward the wall. Which should have been an end to it, save that they had friends who came looking for them when they did not return as expected; and the nick to his forearm left a sufficient trail of drops of blood for them to track.

It is a simple truth that men unburdened will always be faster than quarry carrying a heavy sack. His pursuers caught sight of Mommolek as he began to ascend the wall. Their shouts informed him of his peril; even so, a man carrying an awkward burden can climb a ladder only so fast. 

“Here!” called a voice from above. Mommolek looked up to see Soorenard peeping through an embrasure. “Loop the rope round the sack and I’ll haul him up.”

The noose end of the rope dangled near to Mommolek’s head. It was agonisingly slow work for him to push it round the awkward bumps of the sack. All the while, a crowd was gathering, shouting, pointing. That archers had been summoned he only realised when he took a shaft in his right leg. More arrows whistled near; and reflexively he tried, pointlessly, to duck. Finally (finally!) the weight of the sack lifted from Mommolek’s shoulder as Soorenard hauled it up. He followed fast, steadying it as he climbed the ladder, trying to position it so his friend could pull it over the embrasure. 

How they made it down Mommolek did not know. He would never have thought to see it; but, he thought, the gods must be on our side after all.

Gasping, he limped after Soorenard to the horses. The king was now thoroughly awake and yelling as loudly as he could through his gag. Silence was crucial: they could hear their pursuers calling out as they searched. Quickly, Sorrenard bashed the king over the head to knock him out again, and then tied the bundled monarch over the spare horse. 

“I need help to mount,” Mommolek whispered; and Soorenard shoved him up into the saddle. He pulled his hands away, red and wet. 

Mommolek’s eyes held his friend’s grimly. “Tie me on.”

Soorenard opened his mouth as if to protest; but, then, silently, swiftly, he did as he was bid. Then he mounted and took the lead rein of the pack horse. 

They galloped away. 

Had they left the city unawares, perhaps they would have gone softly; but the city was buzzing like a disturbed hornets’ nest. By then, the king had been found to be missing; and the guards chased them desperately through the woods. It was an out-and-out race against death and defeat; but Mommolek and Soorenard rode horses that were the best Merimna could provide (and it was a city that could afford to buy the best). Slowly—all too slowly—they out-distanced the Taosians. 

By dawn’s break they came close to Merimna’s outer perimeter. In the distance, the river glistened silver, a meandering snake that led to an ever deepening ravine. A familiar ravine, not oft-visted, but nonetheless well-known, at least by Merimna’s heroes. Mommolek’s dun mare had fallen behind, only slightly, but he was no longer urging her onward with all his will and she, tired from the breakneck pace set at the beginning of their journey, had taken advantage of his lapse in concentration to drop from gallop to canter. His mare would know the way, he thought, as he pressed his left calf into her flank in command. But she was reluctant. Ahead lay the route, straight and clear to the stables with clean straw, fresh hay and a bran mash. To the left lay rough terrain. She whinnied protest and Soorenard looked back – turned back. 

“Old friend,” he said, hand catching the reins of Mommolek’s horse to draw her to his, bringing her to halt. “Surely, you did not think to leave without saying goodbye?” 

Mommolek’s smile was little better than a grimace. “It has been a long night,” he replied, “and Welleran waits for me.”

Soorenard bowed his head briefly. When he raised it tears glistened on his cheeks, but all he said was, “For us all, in time,” before they set off again together, side by side. 

Their pace slowed as the ground underfoot grew rocky. Finally they stopped by twin boulders, higher than any man, which marked the start of the ravine. Wearily, weaving gently back and forth in the saddle, Mommolek watched while his friend hid the coarse sack, still bulging with its royal stuffing, into a large cleft and tethered the pack horse by the river. This time, when Soorenard remounted he took the dun mare’s reins in his hands.

Sometime later rest beckoned and Mommolek’s eyelids grew heavy. He opened them to find himself on the ground, his friend bent over him. They shared one horse for those last few yards. 

Mommolek’s wife came to him, and whispered in his ear. He woke again to find himself cradled in Soorenard’s arms. His friend looked drawn and grey.

“You are all right?” he whispered, suddenly anxious. 

“I am well,” came the answer. 

“I did not want you to come.” He mouthed, his breath too faint to make sound. 

“Just as well I did not do what you wanted then, isn’t it,” was the forthright reply.

Mommolek shifted slightly; Soorenard held him closer, and took Mommolek’s chilled hand in his own warm one. A larger, ghostly hand closed round both. Mommolek tried to promise to wait for his friend but forming words took too much effort; he looked into Soorenard’s eyes, and exhaled.


End file.
